Note: to some, the material to which I refer would be better described as “erotic literature.” However, as the line between the two is hazy at best, “pornography” is the term of choice for this particular rant as its connotation better suits my self-declared strop of a mood.
Pornography can be a wonderful thing. Enjoyed privately. In moderation.
I imagine it can also be a wonderful thing enjoyed with one’s loved one(s) who share similar taste(s).
What it is not good for, however, is as fuel for a rather twichifyingly intense conversation with one’s disciplinarian. The type of conversation where one’s tastes are thoroughly examined, one’s consumption reviewed in detail. The type of conversation where one is called to account for such things.
And no, not in a condemning way. Not the typical scolding about a habit somewhere between a waste of time and destructive self-abuse. Something far, far worse.
“What is it you like most about this piece?” he asks. And he expects an answer. An answer that, I know, he will use to his advantage at the next possible opportunity. A girl just shouldn’t be required to hand over that kind of ammunition.